


I Do Not Like Thee, Father Fell

by BuggreAlleThis



Category: Father Ted, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27477769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuggreAlleThis/pseuds/BuggreAlleThis
Summary: Aziraphale is the lone Catholic priest on Cruinne Island. Crowley is the Church of Ireland vicar. They share a church. Pure crack.
Comments: 35
Kudos: 100





	I Do Not Like Thee, Father Fell

Unlike much of the world, Father Aziraphale Fell* didn’t hate Mondays. On the contrary, Monday was his absolute favourite day of the week. Monday was, after all, the furthest day of the week from Sunday, and on Sundays he had to say Mass at 11 am and 6 pm. He was meant to say it at 8 am as well, all truth be told, but duty only went so far, and besides, he only had three regular parishioners in his congregation. He was really there to be brought out for the Big Days, for weddings (none since his arrival), baptisms (one) and funerals (seventeen). But he only even did the evening Mass out of a sense of duty; all his regulars went to the 11 am.

Well. Mrs. Ormerod arrived at 7:50, on the dot, every week, but she just sat in the front pew and waited. The war had been going on for three and a half years now, and Aziraphale had time on his side. Mrs. Ormerod had probably been blind and deaf at the Easter Rising. Maybe she was already dead, and it was her ghost who sat passive aggressively in the front pew, clacking away and sucking her teeth, seething with hatred and refusing to bow to a priest who had the gall and temerity to face _her_ instead of _ad orientem_.

But no, he didn’t have to think about Mrs. Ormerod for nearly a week. Monday was _his_ day of rest. It meant lying in bed until one in the afternoon, enjoying a breakfast of jam on toast and tea and four cigarettes. Anathema bought _daily_ newspapers, the dear girl, which was a luxury he was growing rather too used to. When she’d arrived on Cruinne Island, she’d asked him about _WiFi_ and he’d laughed until he cried. After the newspapers he might have a nap, or read a novel, and then it was five o’clock and time for sherry, when Crowley would inevitably turn up with an entertaining bee in his bonnet over something.

“Any plans for tonight?” he asked Anathema as he cleared away their dinner plates. Ostensibly, she was _his_ housekeeper, since Mrs. Potts had left to make her fortune as Madame Tracy in Limerick. She was meant to be working in exchange for a bed in the parochial house, but a lecture about sexism on her first night had soon taught him what an idiotic idea _that_ was. She was a young American, working on a book about beliefs about witchcraft in the Gaeltacht, though with all the forethought of the young she’d arrived with barely a word of Irish at her. She’d coldly informed him that her ancestors came from Lancashire, England, which was a delightful twist.

“Ley lines. This island’s rife with them.”

“It’s probably the Gulf Stream,” said Aziraphale. Anathema had told him once what ley lines were, but he was afraid of another lecture on not listening to women if he asked for any further clarification. “Are they what makes the Magic Road magic, do you think?”

Anathema looked up at him. “The Magic Road?”

“Yes – between the caravan field and the cliffs. It’s a kind of a bizarre natural wonder where everything's gone haywire and nothing works like it should. If you took off a car's hand-brake, it'd roll _up_ -hill. Water flows _up_ it. You know, that sort of thing.”

“I’ve been here for four months, and _now_ you mention a magic road? Jesus!” Anathema threw her satchel strap around her neck and stormed out the door. “Four months!”

“Don’t go near the cliffs when it’s dark!”

The door slammed.

Aziraphale sighed. _Women_.

He was just finishing the washing up when he heard the front door slam again, this time hard enough for a little ceiling plaster to dust his shoulders. Crowley, angry, then. Aziraphale smiled to himself and brought out the sherry bottle.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley flung himself across Aziraphale’s sofa, disturbing the Sacred Heart throw from Habit-hat. “Biggest glass you’ve got. You won’t believe what’s happened.”

“Does Beelzebub want to try an Orange Walk in Galway again?” Aziraphale asked sympathetically, pouring two very generous sherries. Poor Crowley had needed fourteen stitches last time.

“Worse! _Hastur’s_ going to be Primate of Ireland.”

Aziraphale couldn’t resist smiling. “No one better suited.”

“This is serious! Feck! He wants to come here, once it’s done. _Here_. And he says he’s bringing a _curate_ for me!”

“Are you going to have to host them both?”

“I don’t have any parishioners!”

“You have Shadwell.”

“I won’t when he asks Hastur how many nipples he’s got and then Hastur _kills him_. What am I going to _do_?”

“I _did_ say you shouldn’t tell them that you needed money for a youth group as you had so many converts.” Aziraphale primly sipped his sherry. “I bet they’ve all been asking you for your soup recipe.”

Crowley glared at him, but desperation stayed his tongue. “I need some of yours.”

“Out of the question!”

“Only for one service! You can have them back for Mass!”

“I am responsible for the welfare of their _souls_ , Crowley – don’t laugh! They’ll be expecting you to believe in souls as well and all!”

“Oh, come on! Hastur’ll skin me alive!”

“I’m _sorry_ , Crowley, but I can’t. We’ve clung to our faith through massacres. The Penal Laws. The Famine.”

“I’ll give you ten euro.”

“Oh, and a lovely bowl of soup as well, no doubt! No!” Aziraphale exhaled sharply through his nose. He shook his head. He sipped his sherry. “Twenty.”

“Yes! Yes, perfect. Who?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Well… If you were willing to do an 8 am…”

*At the end of Aziraphale’s disastrous time in seminary, it had been the fashion to allow one’s spiritual director to decide one’s name-in-religion. Unfortunately for Aziraphale, his spiritual director had been Father Gabriel, now Bishop Gabriel of Galway, and Gabriel had decided that he wanted to name his entire cohort after angels. He’d run out of all the good ones by the time he got to Aziraphale, and had had to pick out an obscure name from the Church Fathers.


End file.
